


The Courted Jest

by VespidaeQueen



Series: The Gravity Well [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Drinking & Talking, F/M, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Pre-Relationship, suitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VespidaeQueen/pseuds/VespidaeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Leandra suggests Hawke should consider seeing suitors, Hawke begrudgingly agrees, and everyone else has their own opinion on the matter.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Did you know, these sort of things are done all formal and whatnot? You do some sort of awkward, stuffy sit-down dinner, with little glasses of wine that don’t have enough alcohol in them, and you make awkward, stuffy small talk and try not to embarrass yourself with your terrible Ferelden table manners."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Courted Jest

**Author's Note:**

> Based around Leandra's comment in act 2 that is along the lines of "now I just need to find you a suitable husband." Set a little over a year after the Deep Roads expedition.

 

9:33 Dragon, Early spring

 

It is over dinner, while Hawke is rather aggressively buttering a piece of bread, that her mother casually brings up the subject of _suitors_.

“ _Ow,”_ Hawke says as her hand slips. The butterknife hits her hand, but thankfully - being a butterknife and not, say, the dagger that Hawke often uses when doing similar tasks while away from home - doesn’t do much more than lightly scratch her skin. “ _What?_ ”

“Suitors, dear,” her mother says, not seeming at _all_ concerned that Hawke could have possibly cut her hand open.

“Suitors for...you? Oh my, mother, I didn’t know that you were thinking of that, but I think it’s a fabulous idea.” Hawke scrubs butter off the back of her hand with the edge of the tablecloth. Mother notices _that_.

“Don’t wipe your hands on the tablecloth, Ismat. We have linens for a reason.”

“And the tablecloth _isn’t_ linen?” she says, which Leandra neatly ignores.

“I meant suitors for _you_ , dear,” Mother continues, and Hawke tries not to make a face of abject horror. She mostly succeeds, which just means that she looks vaguely pained.

“Oh. For _me_. Well that’s just...peachy.” It is anything _but_ peachy, and Hawke raises the bread to her mouth and takes a bite to keep herself from saying so.

“I have heard from several families who have sons about your age,” Leandra says, and Hawke chokes on her mouthful of bread.

“ _Ack. Mother!_ ” She coughs and grabs a glass of water, spilling some in her rush to clear her throat. “...augh. Mother, _please_ tell me you didn’t already arrange...things.”

“Well, no,” her mother says, and Hawke lets out a relieved sigh. “I did want to check with you first. After all, if you are seeing someone, I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”

The feeling of relief proves to be temporary, and Hawke looks down at the piece of buttered toast. She could just _not_ answer.

“Well?” When Hawke glances up, her mother is looking at her. _Intently_. “ _Are_ you seeing anyone, Ismat?”

Hawke does _not_ talk about her romantic life with her mother. Mostly because she _has_ no romantic life, and talking about her missteps and pitfalls and how all her attempts at relationships in the past two years had run straight into walls is _not_ a topic she wants to broach with her mother.

“Er,” she says. “No.”

That is the simplest answer. Leandra looks skeptical.

“Not even with that with that woman who came over - what is her name - Isabela? I had thought -”

“Oh. _No_. No, mother, that - we’re not seeing each other,” Hawke says, a little too quickly.

“And there’s no one else? Not even that nice dwarf from that expedition of yours?”

 _That_ Hawke can laugh at. “Varric and I are just friends,” she says, and makes a mental note to tell Varric about _this_ part of the conversation later. “I don’t think anyone will get between him and Bianca. But no, mother, I’m not seeing anyone,” she says, and in admitting that, she resigns herself to agreeing to see...well. _Suitors._

 

**

 

Anders has just lost twelve bits to Fenris that he cannot truly afford to pay when the door to the Hanged Man is thrown open and a noble storms in.

He gives them a passing glance, content to ignore them and _attempt_ to win the next round of Wicked Grace, when Varric gives a low whistle.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, is that you under all those ruffles?”

Anders turns around and - oh. Well.

“That is quite a dress, Hawke,” Fenris says from his side of the table, and Hawke shoots them all a glare that tells them to _shut up_.

“If someone doesn’t make a seat for me and get me something to drink right now, I might just start throwing things,” she say, and there is _definitely_ a dangerous edge to her voice. Fenris’ eyes widen slightly, and he shifts over on the bench enough to make room for Hawke. She drops down next to him.

“Here, have mine,” Anders says, and passes his mostly full tankard over to her. The amount of alcohol he drinks is minimal on the best of days, and generally he’ll just let whatever Varric has placed in front of him sit until someone else steals it.

The last time he truly got drunk was years ago on a bottle of very strong Antivan liquor shared between himself, Sigrun, and the Warden Commander.

Hawke grabs the drink from him violently enough for alcohol to slosh over the sides, and then she tips her head back and drinks what looks to be at least a third of it in one go. She’s not particularly delicate about drinking, and more of the drink spills as she tips it back too far; he watches a bead of alcohol slip from the corner of her lip to her chin, then down her neck to -

Anders drags his eyes away. No sense in that.

Hawke sets the tankard down with a thunk, stares at it for a moment, then slumps forward facedown onto the table.

Varric sets down his hand of cards, leaning over. “You all right there? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re having a bad night.”

There is a muffled wail from Hawke that sounds something like _Vaaaaarric_ , long and drawn out and spoken into the table. Then she props herself up, though she’s still slumped forward against the table, and Anders has a clear view of -

Hawke does not normally wear dresses, he thinks, and moves his gaze to something less dangerous. Especially not dresses with _lace_.

“My mother,” Hawke declares to all of them seated at the table, “has decided that it is time for me to entertain _suitors_.”

There is a dead silence, then Varric erupts into deep belly laughs. He, apparently, finds this hilarious, slapping his hand on the table.

“You have got to be shitting me. Suitors, Hawke? _Suitors?_ Don’t tell me that she’s got you entertaining rich noble boys.”

“I’m going to throw something at you,” Hawke says, but she sounds more annoyed than threatening. “Seriously, though, do you think I wear things like _this_ normally?” She gestures to herself.

“It’s not a bad dress, Hawke,” Anders says, which is true enough. “I like the lace.”

Hawke turns her glare to him. “Don’t you start. I feel like some sort of decorative cake.”

That is...not exactly what he thinks of, looking at her, but her expression is telling him to _shut up_ , so he doesn’t say anything, just drops his gaze to his abysmal hand of cards from their now abandoned game.

“So, why the suitors? I mean, shit, what set this off?” Varric folds his cards together and sets them down on the table before him. “Last _I_ remember, you weren’t in the market for a _significant partner_ of any sort.”

“Yes, _well_ ,”Hawke says, and she turns the mug of ale idly around on the table before her. “I _would_ be, but...I mean I’m really _not_...And even if I _was_ , none of these noble men or women that my mother has lined up for me are even _close_ to - did you know, this man I had dinner with tonight, he’s never _actually_ seen combat? He had a _decorative_ sword on the wall, and it was fairly obvious he had no idea how to use it. I don’t think he had a very good opinion on Ferelden refugees, and his views on mages would have been laughable if they weren’t so damned offensive.”

“That’s an important thing to keep an eye out for in a potential suitor,” Anders finds himself saying. He leans back in his chair, cards abandoned. “Were his views ‘set on fire’ offensive, or ‘surreptitiously applied itching spell’ bad?”

“Considering I can’t do _either_ of those things, it was really just ‘sit through it and attempt to smile and laugh’ bad. Apparently a _proper_ lady doesn’t talk about mage rights at dinner.”

“And now you have managed to turn yet _another_ discussion to the topic of mage rights. Remarkable.” Fenris’ tone of voice is very dry, his words aimed directly at Anders, and the look he gives him is _really_ not a kind one.

Anders glares right back at him.

“Mage rights or no, I could not get out of there soon enough. Did you know, these sort of things are done all formal and whatnot? You do some sort of awkward, stuffy sit-down dinner, with _little_ glasses of wine that don’t have enough alcohol in them, and you make awkward, stuffy small talk and try not to embarrass yourself with your _terrible Ferelden table manners_.” Hawke has very obviously missed the exchange between Anders and Fenris, which is probably for the best. She picks up her drink again. When she sets it back down again, there is a dark red mark along the edge, and a matching one beside it where she had drunk from the tankard earlier.

Hawke doesn’t wear much by way of makeup. A touch more since she’s move on to Hightown and a wealthier lifestyle, but it’s still a rare thing. She rarely wears color on her lips.

He has a thought, sudden and intense, of how her lips would leave little tracks behind. Dark red marks on his skin, marking where she’d been -

“Exactly how many _little_ glasses of wine have you had, Hawke?” Varric asks her, which is a very good question. She slumps sideways on the table, angled towards the dwarf.

“I stopped counting after five,” she says, quite seriously. “The wine was the best part of the night, though there really wasn’t enough. I think I’ll need several more drinks.”

“Not going to be as good as whatever fancy wine you were drinking, but I think we can get Nora to bring you a few. Are you planning on getting drunk tonight, Hawke?”

“ _Very_.”

Anders is very glad that she is sitting on the other side of the table.

There are things he has learned about Hawke when she is drunk over the years. Drunk Hawke is _much_ friendlier than non-drunk Hawke. She is far flirtier, far bolder, all the stops that generally keep her from saying things on her mind gone.

There is a large part of Anders that wishes he could do the same. Just ignore all the reasons he has to _not_ kiss her. To not touch her. To not tell her exactly what he feels for her.

There is an unpleasant rumbling from Justice from the place where he sits inside him, and Anders ignores that just as he ignores everything else.

“You know, we _were_ in the middle of a game of Wicked Grace,” he says, and his words might a touch too abrupt, a touch too rude. Hawke’s eyes snap to his; she’s frowning. “I think you’ve thoroughly disrupted the hand.”

“Then deal me in for the next one,” she says, her frown turning into a smile that’s directed full-force at him. His insides twist. “What are we playing for?”

“The glory of beating Varric,” Fenris says dryly. “And coppers. It’s three bits to buy in.”

“Blondie’s already in the red, so I don’t know why he’s so intent to get back to the game,” Varric tells Hawke in an undertone, though loud enough that everyone at the table can hear.

“I’ll have you know, I intend to win it _all_ back, plus interest.” Anders sweeps all the cards towards him; it’s his turn to deal.

“Big talk, blondie, but experience says you’ll be going home with light pockets tonight.”

“We’ll see.” Anders looks at him, eyebrows raised, as he shuffles the cards, then looks to her. “You in, Hawke?”

She slaps three bits onto the table. “I’m in.”

 

*

 

They have played three hands - in which Hawke has lost an equal amount of times as Anders - when Isabela walks in. Her hair is tangled and windswept, free of its usual scarf. When she walks closer, she smells of salt and the sea.

Hawke thinks she looks very pretty, but she _always_ thinks Isabela looks pretty. She feels a slight tug at her heart, but she squashes it down quickly - they’re already past that, and Isabela made it clear that she wasn’t looking for a relationship and...Hawke accepts that. Just like she accepts that Anders doesn’t want a relationship. Anders, who is sitting across from her with his feathered coat off and his forearms bare, and Isabela who makes room for herself right next to Hawke, nudging her as she slides onto the seat.

“Well, look at this! You’re all dressed up, Hawke!” Isabela’s smile is bright, and where her bare arm presses against Hawke, her skin is sticky with salt. “Living up the noble life?”

“ _Huurgh_ ,” Hawke says. She is on to her second ale and is feeling very loose and warm, but the reminder of _why_ she is dressed up is still an irritating one.

“Hawke here’s been _suiting_ ,” Varric says, and Isabela raises an eyebrow.

“ _Suiting?_ ”

“I don’t think suiting is quite the word you’re looking for, Varric,” Anders says, looking up from what is probably another abysmal hand.

“Suited by suitor’s,” Varric clarifies. “Wined and dined and left thoroughly unimpressed.”

“Courted and thwarted?” That from Anders again, and _oh, Maker_ , they both need to _not_ make things rhyme.

“Please, stop,” Hawke says, but she must admit that her friends making fun of it is not all that bad, and really, they’re putting a smile on her face. “If you must know, Isabela, I had dinner with the son of a noble house.”

“ _Aw,_ you got all dressed up to be _courted_. You didn’t dress up for _me_ , Hawke, I’m very hurt.” Isabela slings an arm around Hawke’s shoulders, hangs all over her, and then deftly steals her ale.

“I didn’t realize you were courting me, Isabela,” Hawke says mildly. “I thought it was just a one night sort of thing.”

“Well, yes.” Isabela swishes the ale around in the tankard, then takes a sip. “ But you look absolutely delectable right now, sweet thing. I’m not normally a fan of Orlesian dress, but that lace makes your breasts look amazing.”

“That is true,” Varric adds, ever the helpful one. Hawke ignores him.

“So that’s a yes or no on the courting?” she asks, keeping her tone light. She _hopes_ she keeps it light.

“It’s a no, but I will gladly kiss you any time you like, Hawke.” Isabela sets the ale down. “You look like you are in need of some kisses right about now.”

“I _do_ like kisses,” Hawke says, and she does, she really does.

“Is that a yes or no, then?”

“You do realize that you’re not alone in the room?” Fenris says, and Hawke realizes that everyone around them is in various states of either listening or trying to outright ignore their exchange. Her face heats, but Isabela doesn’t seem at all perturbed.

“I don’t see anyone _else_ here offering to kiss Hawke,” Isabela says, her voice loud enough to carry to the tables next to them.

“I’m sure no one else here wants to kiss me.” Hawke _tries_ to say it quietly. It’s really meant to be more of an aside to herself, but she’s just tipsy enough to say it aloud, and _of course_ they all hear it.

“That,” Isabela says, giving her a look of disbelief, “is one of the most ridiculous things I have _ever_ heard you say.”

“I don’t know, Hawke does say some _pretty_ ridiculous things.” Varric thumbs one of the cards in his hand.

Isabela leans over, nearly spilling Hawke’s drink as she does, and mostly obscuring her view. “I _bet_ that there are _several_ people here who would like to kiss Hawke.”

“Several? That’s not a very specific amount, Rivaini. If you’re going to make a bet, you need to make the terms clear.”

“Oh, _Maker_.” Hawke feels like sinking down in her seat. She doesn’t.

“Well, then, I _bet_ ten silvers that at least one other person at this table would like to kiss Hawke.” Isabela sits back so that she’s no longer blocking Hawke’s view of the table. Across from her, Anders catches her eye for a moment, before he very quickly drops his gaze to the cards in his hand.

Varric gives a low whistle. Hawke decides that, if she isn’t going to sink down in her seat until she’s under the table, she’s just going to _not_ make eye contact with anyone. Ever again.

“Well? What do you boys think? Is there at least one person besides me at this table who’d kiss Hawke if she said they could? _Ow!_ ”

Hawke kicks her rather sharply under the table.

“Quit it,” she tells her, voice firm. “Don’t turn this into an actual bet, okay? I really don’t need to know either way, so just...don’t.”

“If you want a bet, Isabela,” Anders says, and Hawke looks up quickly, too quickly, quick like she wants to know if _he_ wants to kiss her, “then why don’t you just join in on the next hand?”

“ _Hmmph_. Wicked Grace for coin is _boring_.”

“And what would make it _less_ boring?” Fenris asks. “Is there something less boring that you would like to bet with?”

“Clothing,” Isabela says without hesitation, and there is a rather unified groan from everyone around the table. “Or secrets, if everyone is dead set against losing all of their clothing to me.”

“I think that’s a terrible idea.” If they start telling secrets, Hawke is fairly certain that she’s _just_ tipsy enough to say some things she’d prefer not. Like who _she_ wants to kiss at the table.

Isabela waggles her eyebrows. “Terrible or _amazing?_ ”

“Terrible. No secrets, no losing clothing, please.”

“You’re all _so_ boring. Fine, I’ll bet coin. Deal me in.”

 

*

 

Later still, Hawke leans against Isabela’s shoulder as the men at the table dissolve into one argument or another - rather, Anders and Fenris look like they’re about to tear out each other’s throats, and Isabela really thinks that Varric can handle this one.

Hawke is terribly cuddly, and Isabela thinks that she looks about ready to pass out. She’d stopped drinking awhile back when Isabela had started stealing her drinks and passing them to Fenris, but she is most definitely drunk.

“Sweet thing,” Isabela says as she runs her fingers through Hawke’s hair, pulling out the few pins still holding it in place, “are you all right with this?”

“Hmmm?” Hawke tips her head up, and Isabela quickly adjusts her hand so that she’s not pulling the other woman’s hair. “All right with _what?_ ”

“Suitors,” she says, letting her hand drop to Hawke’s shoulder. “Because if you aren’t, and you think you’re just going to end up here getting drunk every night that you have to go out and put on all these airs and pretend to be interested, then maybe you need to _not_ be all right with suitors.”

Hawke gives a very long, heavy sigh. “It makes my mother happy,” she says quietly, her words only slightly slurred. “And I want her to be happy.”

Isabela’s brow furrows. Next to her, Fenris has leaned over the table and nearly spilled his drink. She ignores the argument going on beside her. “But does it make _you_ unhappy? Because if it does, then screw her happiness.”

“But -”

“You already bought a whole life to make her happy,” Isabela continues. She remembers everything Hawke has said before, about the real reason she worked so hard to fund the expedition, why she’s working to rebuild the Amell name - or rather, to establish the name _Hawke_. “You shouldn’t feel like you need to see _suitors_ for her when it makes you unhappy.”

Hawke is very quiet for a long moment, so quiet that Isabela wonders for a moment if she’s fallen asleep right there at the table. How anyone could fall asleep with the rising voices of Anders and Fenris next to them, Isabela doesn’t know.

“You’re right, ‘sabela,” Hawke says. She pushes herself up, so that she is no longer leaning against Isabela’s shoulder. Her hair falls down completely, just past her shoulders, heavy and tangled. “But some part of me _wants_ to be okay with this. I just...I’m not.”

“Then tell her that.”

Hawke purses her lips, then nods. “I will. _If_ I remember too, in the morning.”

Isabela gives a laugh, a smile. “If you don’t, I’ll come by and remind you.”

 

 

*

 

 

It is _very_ late, and Hawke is still at the Hanged Man. She is mostly content, in the way that too much drink and good company causes. She has not moved from her original seat - she is squished next to Isabela, and has no problem with this at all. She feels cozy and snug and rather tipsy; she is warm from the alcohol and from the press of her thigh against that of her friend.

But she is only _mostly_ content, because across the table from her sits Anders, and he looks very tired and very closed off and very _sad_.

Hawke does not like it when Anders is sad. It is one of her least favorite things, just below ‘getting attacked by random mercenaries in Lowtown.”

They stopped playing Wicked Grace after a spectacular win by Anders had won him back all the coin he’d lost during the night, and she would have thought he’d be _happier_. He _never_ wins at cards, he’s truly _terrible_ at them. But he sits on his side of the table and looks so unhappy, and Hawke wants to kiss away the worry lines between his eyes.

Hawke is rather drunk, and she thinks _yes, I want to kiss him_.

It’s a terrible thought, really, because she knows he’s not interested. He’s already said nothing could ever happen between them, and as much as Hawke doesn’t like that, she’s accepted it. Every once in awhile, she thinks _maybe_ \- but no matter how much they talk or flirt of _anything_ , he always steps back, and she accepts that. She really does.

Accepting it doesn’t keep her from _wanting_.

Her head is swimming less than it was before - she’s _certain_ Isabela has been stealing all her drinks, and she hasn’t had anything stronger than water in at least an hour. Still, if she stands she is _certain_ that she’ll be wobbling all over the place.

She truly has no idea of the time, but she knows that it is _late_.

“I should...probably go back,” she says to everyone and yet no one in particular. She doesn’t particularly want to. She’s got a standing invitation from Varric to crash at his suite, but she...probably shouldn’t take him up on that. Her mother is going to be worrying, she knows, and if she stays out all night she’ll certainly lengthen the time between now and when she has to talk to her about how her dinner went, but it will just make everything worse.

“It’s late, Hawke. You sure you’re fine?”

Hawke laughs at that. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be all right to _walk_ , Varric. The concern is very appreciated, but I am fully capable of getting home _fine_.” She gets up from her seat; her arm feels cold from no longer being pressed against Isabela’s. “I think I might sneak home, though. Going through the front door might be _bad_. I’d like to put off the inevitable as long as possible, thank you.”

She’s getting odd looks from several of her friends.

“What? I’m just going to use the cellar entrance in Darktown.”

It seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do, but Varric looks like he’s just swallowed something unpleasant. He turns his head and he and Anders exchange a _look_.

“ _What?_ ” Hawke repeats. She’s missing something.

Anders rises from his seat and grabs his coat from where it’s been draped over the back of his chair all night. “I think it’s about time I go as well.”

“Same time next week, Blondie?”

He grimaces. “I’ll be thrilled to lose all the coin I won tonight next week. Hawke, mind if I join you on your walk to your cellar?”

 _Oh_. Oh.

“I would not mind _at all_ ,” she says, maybe a little too quickly. She takes a step away from the table and - oh, there’s the wobbly leg feeling from having had too much to drink. Anders catches her by the elbow before she even realizes that he’s moved to her side. “ _Oops_.”

“Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, and she is _very_ aware of his fingers on her arm.

“Might want to do something about that dress, Hawke,” Isabela says from the table - if she had to guess, she would say that Isabela would _not_ be leaving the tavern tonight. “You’ll stand out just a _bit_ much in Darktown otherwise.”

Anders sighs, and a moment later Hawke finds his coat draped around her shoulders. It smells like dirt and sweat and herbs, and the musty smell of old feathers. She brings a hand up to pull in closed around her and she is _certain_ her face is aflame.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” she says as Anders steers her out of the Hanged Man, his hand still on her arm. She assumes it’s to keep her from falling over - her steps seem overly large and wobbly, and everything is just the _slightest_ bit blurred. “Giving me your coat, walking me home - why, it’s positively _gentlemanly_.”

“That’s me,” Anders says, leading her around a pile of refuse someone has left in the street. “Certified gentleman.”

She laughs. She doesn’t know why, but it’s _funny_.

“I don’t think I’d like you half as much if you _were_ a certified gentleman,” she tells him as he helps her not to trip down a set of stairs. “You’re _much_ more fun to be around than a gentleman.”

“You know, I don’t often hear that I’m _fun_ anymore.” She likes to think that she hears a bit of laughter in his voice. “Unbearably stubborn and tiresome? Yes. But not fun.”

Hawke frowns. “You’re not _tiresome_ ,” she tells him.

“I see you say nothing about me not being stubborn. Watch the steps.”

“Being stubborn doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” She clutches his arm tightly as they start the long descent of stairs that lead to Darktown. “Oh, Maker, did you know that these stairs are _much_ more terrifying when you’ve been drinking? Also, it’s dark. I don’t think I can see the bottom.”

Anders _definitely_ laughs at that. “Just hold on to me, sweetheart. I won’t let you fall.”

“Just hold on to you? See, I like the sound of _that_.” Oh, she is drunk, even if her last drink was an hour ago. It is too easy to talk and flirt and hold his arm and _want_. “ _Aah!_ ”

Her foot wobbles and she takes the next step wrong and slips, pitching to the side. There is an endless length of stairs below her. True to his word, Anders catches her, he keeps her from falling; he brings both arms around her and holds her steady, holds her against his chest.

“See? I’m not going to let you trip down the stairs,” he tells her, and Hawke laughs. She puts her feet solidly down on the step and her arms hang rather awkwardly at her sides; part of her wants to hold him as he holds her, another part says _wait, this isn’t the time_.

He lets her go before she can make any decision, and when she looks up at him there is a soft smile on his face.

“Think you’re good to make it down the last few stairs?” he asks her, and Hawke nods. He offers his arm to her again; she takes it, her fingers splayed across bare skin.

His coat is very warm around her, the feathers and fabric heavy on her shoulders. They make it down the last steps without incident; the lamps at the bottom of the stair have gone out, and it is very dark as they continue on to Darktown.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” she asks him after a few minutes of quiet. “Even with me bemoaning _my_ evening the whole time?”

“I didn’t mind hearing about how badly your date went,” he says, and there’s _something_ odd about how he says it. Hawke can’t quite put her finger on it.

Her mouth twists. “I’m sure the next person my mother lines up will be equally as bad.”

“...the next?”

“Apparently there’s a _list_ of suitors.” She’s talking too much, she’s certain of it. She’s not done being upset about this whole thing after all. “Isabela says I should just tell mother that _no, I don’t want to be suited_ \- I mean courted, _whatever_ the word is.”

“Isabela’s a smart woman,” Anders says. Again, there’s something odd in his voice. She tips her head to look at him; he’s frowning.

She just _cannot_ figure out what it is. There’s been something a bit off about him all night; he’s been _so_ quiet, save for the argument with Fenris that she hadn’t paid much attention to. Her fingers curl around the front of his coat, catching on the feathers; she frowns too, trying to figure it out.

 _What is it, what is it, what_ is _it?_

It takes her until they are nearly back to his clinic and her cellar door to figure it out. In a way, it is not strange that it takes her so long - he hasn’t really said _much_ , and she hasn’t been paying close attention to his words. It’s really only that one comment, said so strangely - _I didn’t mind hearing about how badly your date went_ -that gives her some idea, some thought, and even then it takes her longer than it should to tie it all together. She is tipsy, she is drunk, and the last time they had talked about _anything_ between the two of them, he had given her a very clear _no_ , so she hadn’t even - so she hadn’t even _considered_.

But something about his odd behavior all night clicks on that long walk through Darktown, and Hawke looks to Anders, a frown drawing her brows together, and says “wait a moment, are you _jealous?_ ”

She blurts it out, loudly, too loudly. It’s not something she normally would have said as bluntly, but here they are, walking side by side, her wearing his coat over her dress that is too fancy for a stroll through Darktown, and he has been quiet and off and sometimes _rude_ tonight. Hawke is _not_ in the mood for dancing around things.

"Would it be so terrible," he says, not looking at her, "if I was?"

There are two reactions that Hawke has to that response, both instant, both sharp and volatile. She feels her heart thump in her chest, flip, little irrational pieces of hope racing through her. She’d thought this was _done._ That he wasn’t even interested.

The second reaction is anger.

"So," she says, and her voice is as carefully even as she can make it, though there is a waver in it that she inwardly curses. "Does that mean that something’s changed since the last time we talked about _things?_ ”

Anders’ eyes flicker to hers for a moment, then he looks away again. She can see his throat work; without his coat, without the large collar and the silly feathers, she can see the pale column of his neck more easily. She thinks she can see his pulse fluttering there, but it could just be the hazy way that alcohol has tilted her reality.

"No," he says, and there’s a damned _waver_ in his voice as well, like he hates what he’s just said. Just like that all the sparks of hope fizzle out and all that’s left is irritation and anger pooling in her stomach. She drops her hand from his arm.

"No? _No?_ So you’re jealous of - what, what do you even have to be jealous of? Of me seeing suitors to humor my mother? Of some person who I’m not even planning on seeing again? Andraste’s ass, Anders, you don’t _get_ to be jealous when you _already turned me down._ ”

"I had to," he says, and Hawke finds him completely and utterly _infuriating_. “I would only bring you pain, Hawke, I -“

"Oh, _fuck you_ ," she says, and _that_ makes him finally look at her. He’s got that startled, hurt look on his face, his eyebrows drawn up, his forehead wrinkled, and Hawke is so, _so_ done with the horrible pile of shit that is this night. “You don’t get to do _this_. You don’t get to keep warning me away and then getting upset when I try to move on. If you’re still - if you’re still hung up on this _breaking my heart_ and _ruining my life_ or whatever this shit is, then why don’t - why don’t you - just forget that I was ever interested. Because that’s what _I’m_ trying to do.”

Anders makes some sort of choked voice, but Hawke is done. She very drunk and _very_ tired of this, and she still very much wants him to just - to just _kiss her_ , but he never will.

"I’m going home," she says, too loudly. They are in sight of his clinic and her cellar, and she stomps off towards the entrance to her estate. The world feels very tilted; she’s surprised she hasn’t fallen over. Her heart is going so fast that she’s surprised it hasn’t burst.

It takes her two tries to get the key into the lock.

"Hawke."

She freezes. “Go away,” she tells him, not looking at him.

"Hawke, I -"

“ _Go away_.” She wrenches the door open.

"I - I would like my coat back," Anders says, and Hawke wants to laugh and she wants to cry and she wants this entire night to disappear.

She takes it off and finds that he is standing near enough that she can hand it to him. So she does.

"You should wash that," she says. "The feathers are starting to smell."

Hawke doesn’t wait for any response. She disappears through the cellar doors, leaving him standing there with his bedraggled coat and his infuriating _everything_.

*

 

Morning is unkind. Hawke wakes to too much sun in the room and a dull thudding in her skull. Her stomach is a mess, her guts ill and twisted.

“ _Uuuuugh_.” She rolls herself into a cocoon of blankets, curling in around herself. With any luck, she won’t vomit. With any luck, none of last night - none of _yesterday_ \- happened at all.

Hawke has no desire to think about any of it. None. At all. For the first few moments upon waking, she doesn’t - she thinks of her stomach and her head and how she really should never drink that much again.

In fact, she doesn’t think about it until she’s managed to sit up in bed, her stomach lurching unsteadily. The first thing she notes - after pinpointing the location of the chamberpot - is that she is still in her dress from last night. It is crushed and a bit of a wreck, with _something_ spilled down the front, and _oh_ her mother is going to be so upset.

Then Hawke notices the feathers.

There are two of them, one on the floor and one crushed into the neckline of her dress. She finds the second one because something itches between her breasts, and she reaches down to find a feather.

One of _Anders’_ feathers.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” she says, in a distant, somewhat hoarse voice, because she remembers enough of last night and she doesn’t like any of it. “ _Oh no_.”

Hawke remembers wearing his coat. She remembers the strange faces he kept making all night, the way he went especially strange and silent as she talked about her whole situation. She remembers yelling at him.

“Maker’s bloody fucking _auuuugh_.” She tips back over onto her bed and buries her face in her pillows. Her head pounds.

She is never going to get drunk again. Ever.

How is she going to fix this? Say something like _oh, I’m very sorry I yelled at you about things that are very valid, but I probably could have done it without swearing at you and more or less admitting I still have feelings for you?_

She can’t say that.

Really, she can’t deal with this right now. Not when she’s hungover and still in her dress from last night.

Food. She needs food. And water. And probably to avoid everyone for the next forever. Most importantly, she needs to avoid Anders. And her mother.

 _Especially_ her mother.

It takes her far too long to get herself out of the ruined dress; there are too many laces and buttons, but she manages it eventually. The dress is left in a puddle of blue and white fabric on the floor, and Hawke takes a moment to wash her face before pulling on a heavy robe. She has no desire to get dressed, and this _is_ her house, after all.

She meanders downstairs, moving slowly, willing her stomach to settle. With food as her goal, she makes her way towards the dining room and kitchen and -

“Good morning, Ismat.”

Hawke manages a weak smile. “Morning, mother.” There is food on table, and it smells _delightful_ , and despite not wanting to be in the same room as her mother, food wins out. Toast and eggs, she thinks, will do the trick.

She sits down across from her mother, who appears to be absorbed in reading, but Hawke knows better. As soon as she has filled her plate and started to shovel the first forkful of eggs into her mouth, Leandra sets down her papers and fixes Hawke with a stare.

“I noticed you didn’t come home at a reasonable hour last night,” she says, folding her hands before her. Hawke swallows the barely chewed food and just manages not to choke.

“Well, no. Though that does depend on your definition of _reasonable_.” She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, then reaches for a glass of water.

“Ismat, I know that you’re not used to all the rules of society, but those sort of social visits are _not_ supposed to last until after midnight.”

Hawke _does_ choke then. On a mouthful of water. She coughs and thumps her chest and then finally leans back in her seat when she is able to breath normally. “Mother, that you jump to the conclusion that I stayed at Messere _what’s-his-name_ ’s until after midnight is somewhat worrying. I left at a _perfectly_ reasonable hour, and then I...went to the Hanged Man.”

Her mother gives a sad little sigh. For a moment, Hawke is afraid that her mother is going to say something, to chastise her. Instead, she surprises her. “It was that bad?”

“It would have gone better if he hadn’t gone off about how all the Ferelden refugees needed to go back to their own country,” she says truthfully, though with perhaps just a _touch_ too much sarcasm.

Mother winces. “Terrible then, I see.”

“ _Very._ ” Hawke spins her glass of water about and then just barrels forward. “Mother. I don’t want to disappoint you, but I...really don’t think I’ll be able to see anyone else like that. It’s really not _me_ , you see. I’ve got no talent for social things where I have to pretend to be interested in the _possibility_ of a match. I know you’d love to see me married, and I know that _I_ would love to see me married. Someday. To someone who doesn’t mind Ferelden refugees and has a good opinion on mage rights. But not right now. Not to some noble who I don’t even know. So this is me, saying no more.”

There is silence after she says all of that. Her mother is looking at her - not staring, just _looking_. Her eyebrows are raised, but there is a trace of a smile on her lips, and Hawke doesn’t know _what_ to make of that.

“Thank you for telling me, Ismat,” her mother says, and Hawke sits there in a stunned silence. “I should have realized you’d feel that way - but obviously I didn’t. I wish you had said something sooner.”

Hawke sets down her water and picks up a piece of toast from the table, and she feels like they are right back where they were before, several days ago. She doesn’t bother with butter this time; she has no desire to accidentally stab her hand again. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.” She takes a bite of the plain toast, hoping that her stomach will start to settle.

“Oh, _Ismat_.”

“You just sounded so _excited_ , mother.”

Now, her mother looks sad, and that’s Hawke’s fault. Her stomach roils, _mostly_ from last night’s drinking.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Hawke eating her toast slowly, Leandra looking a bit bewildered. Finally, Leandra speaks again.

“Next time, please tell me you don’t want to do something. Don’t let my fantasies of seeing my only remaining daughter married stop you.”

Hawke tries not to wince, because there’s the guilt again. She’s not certain if her mother even realizes she’s doing it.

“I will,” she tells her, even though she’s not positive she truly will. Sometimes it is incredibly hard to speak to her mother, and it’s grown harder with each year.

“And if you _do_ find someone you’re interested in,” her mother continues, “I do hope that you’ll introduce them to me.”

“There really is no one.” Hawke finishes her toast and flicks crumbs from the table. “Everyone I’m interested in is either not interested in a relationship or I’ve messed things up royally with them, or both.”

“You can always fix things that you’ve messed up,” Leandra says, and Hawke gives a dry laugh.

“Not always.”

Not always, but maybe she could try.

 

*

 

“I’m sorry to have to do this, but my clinic will be closed for some time,” Anders tells Lirene during a quiet moment at her store. “I’ll be away, and I won’t be able to see to anyone. If you could -?”

“We’ll manage, Anders,” Lirene says, and she sets a hand on his. “Don’t worry; you’ve already done so much. No one will blame you for taking some time for yourself.”

Anders smiles at her and doesn’t correct her. He isn’t taking time for himself, not in the way that she means.

“I _will_ let you know when I return,” he assures her. “So you’ll know when to send patients my way again.”

Lirene squeezes his hand and smiles. “Please, take care of yourself.”

“I...I’ll try.” It’s the best he can do, given everything.

She’s called away by a customer, and Anders takes his leave of her. She’s a good friend, someone who’s done well to keep all his secrets Sometimes, he wonders how much she suspects, if she has some idea of what he does when he disappears.

She cannot know that these next weeks he will be working closely with the mage underground. That he is planning to go into the Gallows, that he will lead a mage out and to freedom.

It will not be his first time to go within the Gallows.

He is deep in thought as he walks through Lowtown, and at first he does not hear someone calling his name.

“ _Anders!_ ”

It is Justice who notices, prodding Anders from his pensive state, and he looks up to see Hawke nearly running towards him. She’s wearing her grey coat and her hair is loose - no dresses or lace today - and he feels his heart turn over.

 _Not today_ , he thinks, _please not today._

“Hawke,” he says as she comes to a stop before her, her name short and sharp on his tongue. What little mirth there is on her face dies a quick death before his tone and he wants to kick himself. “Did you need something?”

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Hawke recovers quickly, as she always does. “I wanted to talk to you. About last night.”

Anders hides a grimace. “I think we just about covered everything last night.”

“I - well, I -” She stutters over her words. “Did you...your coat looks different today.”

It does. “I washed it,” he tells her. “ _Someone_ told me it stank.”

The corners of her lips draw down and out in a sheepish expression. “Ah. Yes. Well. It _did_. I’m sure it smells better now. That’s not _really_ what I wanted to talk about, though.”

He waits.

“I wanted to apologize for yelling at you,” she says, words coming out in a rush. “Not for what I _said_ , per say - well, I _should_ apologize for the swearing, but the rest of it is still valid - but I shouldn’t have yelled.”

He blinks, and, really, he is terrible confused. “That’s...one way to do an apology.”

“It’s half an apology, really. I just...I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“But everything you said was…?”

“True. And valid.” She’s not backing down, and really, he doesn’t want her to. She’s right, about all of it.

Especially about needing to...forget.

Sometimes, he wishes he was still a selfish, silly man who couldn’t think outside of his own needs.

“You are right,” he tells her. “It’s better if...we’re only friends. No jealousy. No anything.”

Her smile looks very brittle. “Right,” she says. “Friends. I’m okay with that.”

He isn’t, not really. But there’s nothing he can do.

He should tell her.

“I’m going to be gone,” he says, before he can think to stop himself, sees her start. “From Kirkwall. I’m...going away.”

“ _Away?_ ” she repeats, and her smile, brittle as it was, is gone entirely. “ _Away_ away?”

“For a few weeks.” His heart aches at the way her smile has fallen away. Justice twists in his mind, agitated by his unhappiness.

“So you’ll be back.”

“I...will.” He doesn’t say that he will try, though that is all he truly _can_ say. He can never say for certain that he will return from an excursion to the Gallows. “I’ll be leaving today. I meant to tell you last night, but…”

“Oh.” Hawke bites her lip, and for a moment he thinks she might take his hand. Instead, she just gives him a small, sweet, _sad_ smile. “Let me know when you get back, then. I wouldn’t want to _not_ see you again.”

Anders gives an echoing smile, just as sad. “I wouldn’t want to not see you again, either,” he tells her.

He doesn’t hold her. He doesn’t kiss her goodbye. He is going to the Gallows and she cannot follow the path that he treads, and they can never be anything more than they are right now.

 

 

 


End file.
